Fern Glade

By Robert Morgan

As wind stirs through an opening in woods, green feathers long as plumes on peacocks write in pools of sunlight from the canopy. And what they scribble must be dank as earth with ink of roots and alphabet of worms and rot of last year’s leaves and fallen bugs. The syllables they seem to scratch now rise, yes, levitate, a spinning hologram of vapor glittering in the shaft of light: a visitation of illuminated gnats above the shadowy glade’s scriptorium.